Torn, Again
by Passionworks
Summary: Surprise gift for A.M. His image is engraved into your flesh like a mortal, permanent wound. The sickness spreads and infection lingers, but it is too late. The damage has been done... Rated for violent imagery, character death, and sexual content.


**Author's Note: I personally would like to dedicate this for my number one fan, Atilio Montenegro, who wrote me an awesome Ozaicentric called 'Neighbors, Not a Few,' which actually caused me to pity and sympathize the rather heartless man. Well, A.M., you say that I need to get back into writing all my Azula pieces, so here you go! It is Ozula, so I hope you do not mind. I only wish that I can be the _'Goddess of_ _Azulacentricness'_ that you say I am! Perhaps now it is time for me to ask if _you_ will take responsibility for this little surprise…**

Torn, Again

By: Passionworks

"_I'm torn._

_I'm all out of faith, this is how I feel._

_I'm cold and I am shamed_

_Lying naked on the floor._

_Illusion never changed_

_Into something real._

_I'm wide awake and I can see the perfect sky is torn._

_You're a little late._

_I'm already torn."_

_-Torn_

_(By Natalie Imbruglia from the 1997 album "Left of the Middle")_

_Each Cut_

The skin upon your abdomen splits open and spreads apart like your legs in some twisted offering. His fingers just keep digging into you, for you are his personal scratching post. There is no stopping this: no scream is loud enough to be heard by anyone else. Besides, this is just a silly, trivial game. And games are meant to be fun –for one.

"_This won't hurt."_ He teases, but it always does. Of what use is it to complain? You are handed over by a single signature in red ink –your own fresh blood.

_Each Strand of Hair_

You understand that there is no need to brush out all the knots in your hair. His hands pull it like a leash and tear it from your scalp with no care in the world. He has not the capacity to concern himself. Each wisp is tossed to the floor to be thrown away –just like the rest of you.

"_You look splendid."_ He lies –only you know the truth in his words. You stare at yourself in the mirror and wish that you were bald: a man so shallow would never love an ugly girl.

_Each Bruise_

The bruises keep coming back; they remind you constantly of an ongoing infection. His punches run deep into your muscles and they ache with the pressure and weight, but this is a daily punishment for you.

"_They will go away in a few days."_ He whispers; he does not wish to attract unwanted attention to you. Yes, the swelling will reduce and the bruises will fade to a brown or yellow, but the pain will last for a lifetime. Like a malignant cancer cell, it sticks to your heart –no knife can cut it away.

_Every Last Hope_

The darkest crimson curtains block the sun from reaching you. He likes darkness –loves it, for he is the sadist of your most appalling fantasies. He expects you to love it too because you were born in his image. By blood and genes, you have no choice, never did.

"_Resistance is futile."_ He growls, but he still holds a devilish grin on his slightly aged face. You know for sure that this is true. Why bother staring out of windows? Opportunity has run dry –bone dry.

_Each Drop of Blood_

You bleed for him, inside and out. You are cut up and exposed like a carcass; liquid gushes and rolls from your innards. He does not ever stitch up these wounds –no, this river, this pool, runs thick. He enjoys bathing himself in it. It is his, after all; his to enjoy.

"_You are due to conceive." _He laughs because he knows what is to become of your virginal body. He anticipates your agony, your ear-piercing, blood-curdling screams. You wish you were a masochist –maybe it would not hurt so much.

_Each Scar_

Underneath your robes of royal red, scars take residence. They are like puzzles upon your flesh: riddles with a million possibilities. You trace each mark with your index finger and you are painfully reminded of all the memories best left erased.

"_No one can see them."_ He states with a reassuring tone of voice. He is rather clever –even you must admit to that. Clad in the most revealing gowns and dresses, you appear as if unharmed. No eyes can take even the slightest glimpse at what is on the inside; veins and arteries are clogged with your seemingly inappropriate desires.

_Each Bead of Sweat_

You perspire in his presence; it covers your forehead. It is much like glue: you attach to him. The closeness is too much for you, for you prefer his hands above your hips –or, rather, off of you completely. But you do not speak your mind or bark your request. His way is best –it always is.

"_Do it again."_ He urges defiantly. As if programmed, you do as he says. You are a robot: your voice is not your own, your actions are recorded, and you are cold with a lack of love. You want your skin to rust like metal. Maybe then he would forget you and allow specks of dust to mark the years of freedom. But these said years do not even exist –only in your dreams.

_Every Thought_

He messes with your head –turns every knob in the opposite direction. You cannot think straight yourself; you take no alarm as this is quite normal to you –routine, it seems. He deems you beautiful when you do not eat because he finds it easier to crush you –but he loves a challenge, lives for it, really.

"_Close your eyes."_ He orders. This is no surprise –you are well aware of his every move, every simple action. His rough hands just sweep over your body, privacy the least of his worries now. Once in a while, you will take a quick glance at him, but inside your head, your little muse voices your best wishes. Keep them closed; these images are not meant for a child's eyes.

_Each Tear_

Sometimes he will catch you crying, your pupils dilating and whites bloodshot. This displeases him to his very rotten core, but he does not mind your defiance –a little odd from the norm. He exists only to harm you, punish you in ways that sicken even the devil.

"_Do not cry, dear."_ He purrs seductively in your ear. To him, you are like a flower –he is the weed. One day, you will desiccate and wither away. Your petals, once so vibrant like a passionate rose, will crackle and chip like paint to a wall. It does not matter to him: he just applies another fresh coat.

_Your Own Mortality_

His fire burns so dangerously in his palms. For just a moment, he is gentle, cradling it like the child you are expecting. But good things never last, at least, not for you, anyway. His burns run too close. You melt; your flesh pops and sizzles in his Lake of Fire.

"_Dare you defy me?"_ He snaps, spittle hitting your cheeks. But your life was never precious. You were like a toy to him: the interest only lasted until the novelty wore off. He casts your mangled corpse aside for another demented soul –someone who perhaps could love you a little more than he did…


End file.
